


Chase the light (to the edge of night)

by Evadere



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Bottom Derek, Future Fic, M/M, Mates, Sterek Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 13:29:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evadere/pseuds/Evadere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Once there was a man who was afraid of his shadow.  Then he met it.  Now he glows in the dark.”  (Ben Loory)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chase the light (to the edge of night)

**Author's Note:**

> Listen to Strength{Sinew} the Fanmix for this fic here [[X]](http://8tracks.com/miss-papaya/strength-sinew-1)

_The time has come to chase the light, / to fight against the dark of night. / At the close of day and fade to black, / Calm I sleep until it comes back. / Open your eyes and start the fight, / the time has come to chase the light._

_(Tyler Knott Gregson)_

 

**{ I }**

 

Of course this would be his life.

 

As he falls onto his back, the crunch of leaves underneath his jacket echo sharply and the slide of his nails into claws dig into the soft, damp earth. The arrow sticking out of his chest stings, his skin trying to heal around the intrusion. The shaft refuses to break under his grip, the nock and fletching new to him, although the design feels far too familiar.

 

Sounds just like the homecoming Derek was expecting, really.

 

_

 

“Really?”

 

The word is filled with mirth, the question's edge approaching something close to yearning. Maybe. Derek rolls his eyes, letting the mattress sink as he relaxes. All eyes are on him, the wound, nerves making every breath taken of the air around the room electric. Allison apologizes once, the constant scrape of nails against teeth, and her white knuckled grip a testament to it. Scott lets his eyes bleed red with worry, sneakers rubbing the faded wood floor raw with his pacing. It's the hand on his chest that his eyes keep coming back to. The hand that presses close to the arrow, gentle but resolute, as the other hand drags a warm rag over blood, grime and skin.

 

Instead of prompting another response, Stiles looks to Allison, hands steady on Derek's skin. These aren't the hands of the boy he left behind four years ago. Gone were the soft, unsure hands that could have been swallowed up by the broadness of his own. They were in a full discussion in front of him, his eyes closing, allowing one sense to eclipse another. Stiles applies more pressure, and he can feel calluses. He opens his eyes, searching out the scars that roughen his skin, following the elegant length of muscle from knuckle to forearm. There's a tug on his back, the grate of metal against metal muted. He's on scar number four, a fine indent near his elbow, when Stiles grabs hold of the shaft and pulls it out.

 

_

 

The next time he finds himself greeting consciousness after a less than mortal wound, he wakes to the overwhelming scent of saw wood. It's so thick he can taste where metal met timber, creation something long lost to his tongue. Sawdust shifts underneath his fingers, muscles tightening as he pushes himself off of the floor.

 

“First, how many times can you possibly be injured in one week? Second, don't try and get up, that were-hyena took a chunk out of your thigh and I didn't stay here for an hour just so you can botch up the healing. Third, if you try it anyway I'm not picking your little werewolf ass back up. Oh and do you honestly think your eyebrows even phase me even more?”

 

Derek fails to control the smile, so he reigns in his eyebrows. He relaxes back onto the floor, a solid wall behind him gives him leeway to lean his head back and take in Stiles, sitting next to his feet.

 

“Your heartbeat would say otherwise.”

 

Stiles narrows his eyes, then rolls them. “I was freaking out that you would bleed through the sheet. Hardwood floors don't clean themselves.” Stiles attention shifts back to a tablet in his lap, and then he proceeds to tap at it quickly. The silence allows Derek to take in the rest of his surroundings. The room isn't his motel room, the sheets covered in sawdust and plastic hanging from the walls unfamiliar. He notices a saw stand, some feet across from Stiles, a handful of nails and a table saw strewn across the top. His eyes recognize nothing and his wolf claws at his ribcage, confused.

 

“What are you working on?”

 

“Just updating my bestiary. You're uncle was a psycho, but at least he was smart enough to keep his library in this century.”

 

Derek ignores the comment about Peter. He's learned to leave things gone and dead, behind. He gives in, and lets the question fall between them, exposed.

 

“Where are we?”

 

Stiles pauses, lips pressing together in a thin line. His heartbeat had scattered at Derek's words, but with a soft breath, it collects itself. “I know it's been four years, but you'd think with all the creeping and brooding you've done here, you'd know your own house?”

 

_

 

Derek listens, as Stiles sets aside the bestiary, and takes them back to the winter of his junior year. _No, he doesn't want to start there, but rather that summer. Where he would run every morning, a habit he picked up from too many sleepless nights._ Derek doesn't interrupt, he barely even breathes as Stiles recalls one particularly sweltering morning. _The Hale house was always along his route, and again with the eyebrows? Sure it's been nine months with no word. But still. Who knows what Peter would be up to if he wasn't kept in check_ Which was a lot, but that's another story, isn't it? _There were no signs of Peter, but there were serious signs of heat stroke if he didn't find a place to cool down._

 

Stiles left hand had made its way to the scatterings of sawdust on the floor beside them, tracing spirals as he continued. _The entrance was empty, dark and several degrees cooler than outside, so he found himself a spot on the staircase and emptied his water bottle. He hadn't even realized he was leaning against the banister, it couldn't have been that hard, but then he was on the floor, with a splinter in his shoulder and two broken rails underneath him._

 

“I felt awful. I was starting to get used to that feeling. I don't know what it was Derek, but I just laid there for so long in the shade until nothing hurt anymore. I kept staring at the floorboards, and the patch of wolfs bane growing out from underneath a rotted hole. It wasn't okay.” The tracing comes to a stop as Stiles checks his watch, frowning. Derek follows that path of his hands, startling at the weight on his thigh, as Stiles kneads the faded wound. There's a mutter of tissue breakup, Finstock and werewolf anatomy, although none of it registers. Only the crack of knuckle pushing into flesh, and Derek's own heartbeat, deafening.

 

“So I ran back home, showered, and drove to that hardware depot on Eleventh Ave. Asked to work nights, interviewed a few days later and then had a job for the summer. By the next week, I was at the house, cleaning up what I could.” His hands are warm, and he presses harder, thumbs circling. _After four days of being gone every morning, his dad found out and joined him on his days off. The store discount, and a manager who used to work in construction helped things along. He spent every morning that summer, and every weekend during school until Stanford there. It took about two weeks for Scott and Isaac to ask him why he always smelled like a mixture of ash, earth and sweat. Two days after that for Allison, Lydia and Chris Argent to show up, pitch a tent canopy and place jugs of water underneath it. They all helped. Even Deaton, just not in the rebuilding part._

 

“Stiles.”

 

“Oh- yeah. Got it, shutting up.” Stiles' grin is uncomfortable, not quite fitting the face of the man he has grown into, when his eyes focus on his moving hands. He begins to pull back, until Derek covers them with his own.

 

“It's okay. It's healed...,” The words echo against the bare, transformed lumber around them, reaching out for what's unsaid. The brush of thumb against the inside of his wrist and the eagerness he could remember from so long ago, changed, makes Derek whisper, “thank you.”

 

It takes eight heartbeats and three shaky breaths for Stiles to ask him if he can show him the rest of the house.

 

_

 

The only time he let's go is when Stiles stands outside his jeep and reaches into his pocket to bring out a key.

 

Fourteen heartbeats.

 

Derek's hands wrap around it in promise.

 

_

 

_It was then, the over whelming realization washed over me / that there is so much more to life / than simply surviving it._

_(Tyler Knott Gregson)_

 

**{ II }**

 

 

He'd forgotten how the freshness of basil cradled by the muted earthiness of mushrooms and tang of ripe tomatoes could fill an entire kitchen, and soothe his limbs. Juice and bits of garlic peels cling to his skin, the mess inconvenient, but not unwelcome. He shouts for Isaac as the hot water of the faucet turns his hands pink.

 

A phone hits the floor above him, a curse, frantic footsteps and the creak of one step that refused to be fixed precedes Isaac stumbling into the kitchen. He flashes a knowing smile, grabs his scarf and hurries out the door.

 

Derek just stares, and shakes his head, shutting off the heat and placing the lid on the pot so the sauce would retain heat. He waits until his steps fade, and calmer ones approach the porch, and reach the hall, the front door shutting. He turns around, and raises an eyebrow, purely out of amusement. “I made stuffed mushrooms for him too, you know.”

 

“Awesome, because I'm starving and I'll be sure to save him some for being so understanding of my intentions. Which if he were here to ruin, would result in a very vivid, grotesque image I made clear to him on the bus ride here via text” Stiles slides off his shoes, letting his duffel bag hit the floor, the thump muffled by the sheepskin rug. There's the barest hints of circles under his eyes, and his hair is long enough that he could rival Isaac's curls. His smile lights up his whole face, striking something fierce within Derek, captivated as he walks right up to the stove, lifts the lid and takes a whiff. His moan sends Derek's wolf growling, the closing of the lid masking the obscene sound that escaped the back of his throat.

 

“Care to enlighten me on those intentions?”

 

“I intend to enjoy a delicious homemade meal that will need to be reheated because I'm going to spend my spring break letting you show me just how much you missed me.” With a waggle of eyebrows and a wink, Stiles hooks his fingers into Derek's belt loops and tugs him forward, his mouth warm and lips tasting of crisp, sweet apples.

 

So Derek shows him. He shows Stiles with the slide of his tongue on his lower lip, and in the pressure of teasing it between his teeth. When they decided the stairs are too much trouble, Derek shows him with the urgent shedding of clothes, and in the groan against his ear when skin meets skin. When he's lifted up, he wraps his legs around Stile's waist, his back shoved against the slick, chilled door. Stiles rolls his hips, and Derek tells him the effect he has. How the sight of his muscles, straining from his chest to the hands under his knees, gripping and taking Derek's weight, makes him want to Stiles inside of him. Makes him want to beg. And he begs, for the hands that wrap around him, firm, hot, unyielding. To taste himself on those fingers, and watch how each rub of his tongue against Stiles' coarse fingertips, causes his eye lids to flutter. Derek lets his head fall back, skin burning where Stiles finds his collarbone and sucks. Stiles teases, and unravels him, one finger at a time until the curl of them leaves Derek panting. Stiles shifts and sends them tumbling to the rug, Derek's forearms bracing the fall, laughter rolling off of them until the sound melt into sighs and murmurs, promises. Stiles doesn't need to be convinced anymore, not when his name is spilling out of Derek's mouth between breaths. Not when Stiles feels the press of Derek's heels, urging him closer, each thrust harder. Derek's eyes lock on his, mouth hovering over Stiles' as he rocks up into his fist. Stiles swallows Derek's groan when he jerks underneath Stiles, coming. After, he covers Stiles' hand with his own and lets his hips work until they stutter, Stiles adding to the wetness between them. Derek doesn't mind showing him, memorizing the sound of Stiles' heartbeat and the press of his palm on Derek's hip as he comes.

 

_

 

“Nah uh buddy, I built this bannister, we are not breaking it!”

 

“We can always rebuild it together.”

 

“I'm going to miss my bus.”

 

“I'll drive you.”

 

“Oh that's not fair, you know I am powerless against your stubble and leather combo. Hmm.. fuck, okay this is definitely happening now. ”

 

“...”

 

“You're definitely doing the eyebrow thing again, aren't you?”

 

“... Maybe.”

 

_

 

Derek ends up snapping part of the bannister in his grip, and Stiles get the best case of stubble burn.

 

And he gets to choose the play list on the drive down to Stanford.

 

_

 

**{ III }**

 

 

He's in love with the Abominable Snowman. That must be the only explanation for why Derek wakes up to toes that caress his ankle and his blood dropping to sub zero temperatures. The sound that escapes his mouth is embarrassing, although Stiles finds it amusing. There's a playful shove against his shoulder, and then Stiles shuffles closer, arms wrapping around his torso, his nose a soft nudge against the back of Derek's neck. The sheets tangle around their legs, the sun a warm enough blanket. He curls his back, and looks down, lifting a hand to trace along the skin of the arm embracing him, veins, moles and scars.

 

“We're going to have to get out of bed sometime.”

 

The damp huff that tickles the back of his neck and the nip that follows doesn't surprise him.“I don't have classes for another eighty one days. There's no logic that could convince me that there's anything I need to be doing besides being right here, and curing you from my igloo feet.” Stiles grinds into him, fully prepared to keep his word. The mattress shifts, only for Stiles to push himself back, arm coming back to trace his neck.

 

Derek grunts and turns over to face Stiles and rest his head against his hand. Stiles watches him curiously as his elbow sinks into the pillow they share. “You have a mark.”

 

“So do you. Seventeen of them.”

 

“Those are scars. Permanent reminders that I am human and fragile. You don't get marks, and I'm pretty sure that's where I bit you a few days ago... Yep, it was in the back of the cruiser, there's no way I would forget that. Why hasn't it healed all the way?” The touch is soft against his cheek, fingers tracing the fading grooves of pillow marks. Derek opens his eyes after they skim his eyebrows and lets Stiles trace the outer shell of his ear and the bottom curve of his lip before taking Stiles' hand in his own. In time he'll share about the bond his mom and dad use to whisper to Laura and him about, as they kissed their cheeks and wished them a peaceful silver night. Stories of love and connection and pack, things he thought were lost after the fire.

 

“It will.”

 

“We've got eighty one days for you to catch me up on Werewolf 101 and Intro to Hale history. I'm too tired to argue, but we start tomorrow.” Stiles shuts one eye, squinting the other one. He goes for menacing and falls several feet short, at right about adorable. Derek brings their hands to his lips, and presses a light kiss on Stiles' thumb. He agrees.

 

“You didn't go for a run, but you didn't sleep well. How was the last one?”

 

“Not bad.” Derek doesn't even need to raise an eyebrow for Stiles to squeeze his hand. “I mean, they were much worse back then. We were linked, but I wasn't with them. I didn't think I could escape, that maybe my mind wasn't really mine at all, and that I never really saved my dad. When Lydia destroyed the Void, I thought the nightmares would stop. They didn't. They just didn't happen every night.”

 

Derek lays his arm down, and touches their foreheads together. “I'm sorry you had to do it all alone.”

 

“I'm sorry you did too.” The words are quiet, almost slipping through the space between their bodies as if they feared the brightness of the sun. Derek opens his mouth, wants to dust off the words and hide them away. Instead, he shuts his eyes, and let's the heavy weight of his limbs settle. Stiles kisses him softly, a press of lips to the corner of his mouth. “Besides I sort of had you. It wasn't real, but you didn't hurt like my mom did. It was harder because I didn't know what happened to you, I had nothing to fight back with. You're here now though.”

 

“I won't leave you again.”

 

“I know you don't want to, but it's okay if you do. You'll always come back.”

 

He opens his eyes, watching sunlight pour over them. He gives himself this, watches the russet gaze in front of him brighten as his own eyes reflect his wolf, stirring, content.“Are you sure?”

 

Stiles brings their hands to his chest and smiles. “Listen.”

 

 

_I'm sitting right here / waiting for you to realize / I've always been home._

_(Tyler Knott Gregson)_

**Author's Note:**

> This was a gift for fandomsarefrustrating for the Sterek Secret Santa Tumblr Exchange <3


End file.
